


Happily ever-

by finlyfoe



Series: The Julia Files [3]
Category: Homeland
Genre: Backstory, Banter, F/M, Falling In Love, Gen, Love Confessions, Reunion, Romance, Secret Identity, Snipers, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 23:12:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8228020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finlyfoe/pseuds/finlyfoe
Summary: The reunion of Peter Quinn and Julia under special circumstances"Peter’s hair’s a total mess...  He is radiating energy, still running high on adrenaline. With his sleeve he wipes away the sweat on his forehead and is about to get rid of the Kevlar vest, when he notices the other police woman for the first time. Small frame, dark hair in a pony-tail, a no-nonsense expression. Dark eyes, glaring at him intensely.Peter recognizes her at once.  It’s a f*cking awkward moment because -it’s Julia. Their eyes meet for the slightest of seconds.It’s not as if he had been thinking about her a lot. He hasn’t for years. But he sees her and it all comes back. Her smell, her taste, the crush he had.F*ck.F*ckF*ckF*ck." The Julia Files are my take on PQ's backstory w/in official lines.Please make sure to read "About a boy" first.





	

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to  
> koalathebear for betareading  
> cheesecake97 for infos on Philly  
> and to everybody commenting on the two other parts - you guys keep me writing!

Carrie Mathison takes another look at the newspaper clipping in Peter Quinn’s secret treasures-box. Singer Kurt Cobain dead.  Nirvana’s never been her cup of tea - not at all, but she can picture young Quinn, long hair and flannel shirt, being into this angry, raw, dark kind of music.  April 8th must have been a tough day for him….

She folds the clipping away, picking up the next piece of Quinn’s mysterious life. A pen from an Indian restaurant in Philadelphia. No place she’s ever heard of.  She tries the phone-number – disconnected.

 

 

***********************************************

An unsuspecting observer might have taken the two figures on the rooftop of the 5th precinct, Philadelphia police, as statues. Black-clad statues with black balaclavas and goggles to protect their eyes, on a searing August day.  A statue of a gunner, lying on his stomach, the shoulder-stock of an MSG 90 gun against his cheek, finger on the trigger, eye on the telescope, next to the statue of a spotter, binoculars in use, walkie-talkie at hand.  They haven’t moved for some time, but they are very much alive:  A SWAT team on duty.

The walkie-talkie crackles, the man with the binoculars holds the walkie-talkie to his ear, listening intently.

“Yeah….” he goes, “copy that.“

A lonely seagull glides by.

“Over.” The walkie-talkie crackles again.

“Peter, you bloody smart-aleck, you were right again. No more negotiations. Team Bravo to create the distraction, countdown is on, you take out both. Let’s roll. Or wanna change positions?”

“Fuck off, Rob…”

They wait a few more minutes, frozen. Then all hell breaks loose:  headlights from the police cars surrounding the opposite building switch on and flood the scene with light. Sounds of explosives, panicked cries, the wail of an ambulance.

“Fucking smoke-bombs…” says Rob, the guy with the binoculars.

Peter, manning the gun, remains calm and steady. Takes a breath, then a shot. Another breath, another shot.

“Guess you got ’em”, says Rob, employing the binoculars.

“Yeah.”

Some more crackling sounds on the walkie-talkie. Peter on the gun retains his shooting position. Rob on the walkie-talkie listens again.

“Yeah… copy that…” To the sniper: “Still waiting for confirmation…”

They see the doors of the building burst open, people run out, paramedics rush towards them, cover them in blankets, lead them to the waiting ambulances.

The walkie-talkie crackles again.

“Yeah… copy that. Over and out.”  
He gets up, straightens his back, gives the sniper a hand to help him up.  
“Nice shots. Like bike-riding – you obviously don’t unlearn it…”

Peter rolls his shoulders, shakes his hands and his feet to get the blood recirculating.

 “How stupid can you be, set up a terrorist cell just opposite a police precinct and take hostages?! They had it coming, dumb fucks,” Rob rants on.

They both laugh. The job successfully completed, the tension needs an outlet, which is for now: an excess of sarcasm. Later on, it will be a few beers in a bar somewhere downtown, after they have cleaned up and changed and reported to the guy in charge. They won’t be able to sleep for a while, both too amped up on adrenaline.

They pack up quickly and efficiently. Peter takes his weapon apart, cleans it, puts it in a case. Rob adds the binoculars and the walkie-talkie, checking the batteries thoroughly before putting first. Peter grabs the heavy case.

“Elevator or stairs?”, Rob asks.

“Stairs if _you_ carry the stuff, asshole…”

Rob grins and starts maltreating the push-button of the elevator to take them down.

“When are you off to your new top secret assignment?”

“No idea.... I'm on standby… been for weeks…”

“…The usual shit. Appreciate it you helping out.”

“Don’t, asshole.”

“Shit what happened to that fucking elevator. It’s boiling under this balaclava.”

The balaclavas are never a nuisance while needed. Nor are the kevlar vests. As soon as the operation is completed, it's like a switch has been flipped: The vests suddenly feel heavy, the balaclavas start to itch, the operatives notice they're hot and drowning in sweat. Security measures are however very clear: The balaclavas are not to be removed outside the building. Too many cellphones and part-time-photographers around. Even (or especially) if the building is a police-station.

Finally the elevator arrives, the door opens. Two police-officers of Philadelphia PD inside. Two women.

“You need help, Sirs?”, the blonde offers, clearly eager to glance at the legendary SWAT-team brought in by federal police.

Peter and Rob exchange an amused glance and step inside: entertained by the thought of the girls carrying their heavy shit - “Thanks, I think we’re good”, Rob says, his voice exuding friendliness, “but tell me, where do we find the showers, this guy here needs it, he's starting to stink to high heaven”, he adds with a smirk. Peter keeps a straight face and lets go of the case which tips over, onto Rob’s foot. Rob howls.  
The blonde chuckles.  
The door closes. The men take off the balaclavas. Peter’s hair’s a total mess.  His face is sweaty, the cheeks hollow, he has a three-day-stubble and dark circles under his eyes. He is radiating energy though, still running high on adrenaline. With his sleeve he wipes away the sweat on his forehead and is about to get rid of the Kevlar vest, when he notices the other police woman for the first time, the one on the left. Small frame, dark hair in a pony-tail, a no-nonsense expression. Dark eyes, glaring at him intensely.

Peter recognizes her at once.  It’s a fucking awkward moment because -

it’s Julia. Their eyes meet for the slightest of seconds.

It’s not as if he had been thinking about her a lot. He hasn’t for years. But he sees her and it all comes back. Her smell, her taste, the crush he had.  
Fuck.  
FuckFuckFuck.  
Another two months, and he’ll be 29. His life is great. Something new every day. A demanding job, no strings attached, and that’s how it has to stay. He's proud to be here. There’s nothing missing. The past is dead and buried. Off-limits.

He looks again. Hoping his eyes are playing a trick on him. Or maybe the adrenaline or whatever.  
Her name badge reads “Julia Diaz”.  
Shit.  
She keeps staring at him, brow furrowed.  
He averts his eyes from her gaze, considering the best strategy to handle this situation.

Rob goes on chatting up the blonde. “So where would you girls go for a great night out?”

Peter busies himself with his watch, pushes a few buttons. A survival watch - a lot of things to play with if you want to avoid somebody’s curious stare. Barometric pressure, height, temperature, the longitude… The elevator ride down doesn’t seem to end.

Until it does. The door opens.

The blonde and Rob exchange flirtatious bye-byes.

Peter steps out with a short “bye” to nobody in particular. He walks down the aisle with long strides in order to disappear from Julia’s view as soon as possible. He can feel her eyes burn a hole in his back and he has to force himself not to turn around.  
There’s only one way for him to go: Forward.  
*

They report, they get rid of the gear, they head for a shower.

*

Rob has already left. Peter is still in the shower, lathers his body, his hair one more time, lets the hot water run over his face while replaying the situation in his head. The rooftop, the waiting, the shots. It’s his routine after a job. A kind of superstitious ritual that allows him to exorcise his consciousness of the people he's killed by first recalling the images, then letting them get washed down the drain. A meditation strategy. Today’s targets are easy to wash away. The first time he’ll hear their names and see their faces is when he turns on the TV tomorrow morning, over breakfast. They killed a hostage, threatened to execute more. As Rob put it, they had it coming.  
He decides to shave back at the hotel, before they go out. He’s been awake for 36 hours.

He turns off the shower, dries himself, drapes the towel around his hips.

When he steps out of the shower into the changing room, she’s there, leaning against the wall, waiting for him. Julia. Small and determined. It feels like a kick to the kidneys.

_Attack is your best defence, right._

“Look lady”, he goes, as cocksure as he can muster, “this is the men’s shower….”

She stares at him open-mouthed, then lets her no-shit-attitude take over: “It is not a shower, it’s a changing room… Johnny.”

He doesn’t react. Just crosses his arms, making clear he waits for her to leave so he can get dressed.  
_Better not look directly into her eyes. Stare at the area just above her eyes. Chances are she won’t notice the difference._

All of a sudden, her cockiness seems to vanish. She bites her lip. Asks: “You don’t remember me -?“ She sounds shocked.

“Should I?”, he replies, eyes unblinking.

There’s an awkward pause.  
“You’re John, right? John from Baltimore?”  
He shakes his head.  
At this moment, Rob rushes back in: “Hurry the fuck up, Peter, I am waiting for-“ He stops in his tracks, taking in the woman.

“You got the wrong guy, see”, Peter says with emphasis.

Julia scrutinizes him, her eyes pitch black. Bambi eyes.  
Rob looks from one to the other, puzzled, curious.  
“Is there a problem?”, he wants to know.

“No!”, Julia and Peter exclaim in unison. She gives them an embarrassed smile and leaves without another word.

“Jesus, what was that?!” Rob wants to know.

“No idea…” Peter says and grabs his clothes.

*

The bar is cozy and packed and Peter should drink his beers and relax. But fucking Rob has brought the girls. The police-officers. The blonde and Julia. Which is completely against any protocol whatsoever. They can fuck around as much as they like, but not girls who know who they are. What they are. To do so is fucking insane and only proves that Rob needs some down-time.  Unfortunately, the only one not realizing this is Rob himself.  Right now chatting up the blonde and leaving it to Peter to entertain Julia of all people. He curses his luck, determined to keep it together. Determined to not behave like an asshole - she doesn’t deserve it. It’s not her fault. The clever move would have been to leave straight away but then he’d have Rob all over him like a rash tomorrow demanding to know what the hell is _wrong_ with him. And he won’t be able to sleep anyway. So better try to manage half an hour of somewhat civilized conversation.

To his astonishment she obviously decided to be flirtatious. Maybe to cover up for what she takes for her embarrassing mistake.

 “So, Peter,” she starts, “have you been here before? To Philly?” and gives him a brilliant smile.

“Not much”, he goes, “did the liberty bell kind of stuff though.”

“It’s pretty ok”, she says, “a good place to live I guess. Look, I really have to apologize. I don’t usually do this -  stalk guys coming out of the shower. It’s just… I could have sworn…”

 “No worries” he says with a cheeky smile, “happens to me all the time, women lurking when I take a shower…”

She laughs. “Yeah, I figured… you SWAT guys have a certain reputation…”

“Oh we do? What kind of reputation?”

She smiles at him and doesn’t reply. But her eyes are teasing him. He sits so close he could easily touch her face and her hair and her elbow, could press his knee against hers and make it look like it's because of the confined space in a packed bar and all… He visualizes how he wants the evening to end: Somewhere far from the crowd. In bed. Him and Julia making love, slowly, tenderly. Shakes his inner head, _God what’s wrong with me!,_   yet can’t help smiling.

Until she finally comes up with an answer.

“You are something else… I mean… You just killed two guys, don’t worry, I won’t ask which one of you…, and here you are, drinking and flirting like your average office Joe. So I guess… you are somewhat… over the edge…”

Yeah, they shouldn’t be here with these girls… How delusional was that, to think they were up for making out? He could come up with a stock answer to her allegations but...

“Yeah, we are bad… A toast to that. So, which drink can I get you?”

“God I've upset you without even meaning to… I'm sorry,” and she smiles, clearly not sorry at all. “Let me get the drinks. To make it up to you. If that doesn’t hurt your alpha male-feelings.”

“Why should it, I am not alpha. More gamma or epsilon, _babe_.” He grins.

 “OK then, _dude_ , what can I get you? Beer with coke?”

_She’s testing him!_

“Beer with coke? Am I, like, sixteen?”

 _There – got you_!  
She stares at him, he can see her mind race. So that’s what they are up for tonight – she will try to rattle his cage and he will do his best to keep her confused. Not the smart thing to do, strenuous too, but fun. Lots of fun.

*

What he hasn't taken into account is the fierce competition: The place has a bad ratio for pick-ups, far too many guys for a handful of girls. When it’s his turn again to get the drinks, he finds his seat taken on coming back. He hands Julia her wine cooler and keeps standing, his beer in hand, looking down on the lawyer-type who tries to chat up his girl. Well, the girl he’s here with anyway. And what does the girl do? She gives Peter the shortest nod of acknowledgement for the wine cooler, then turns her attention back to this guy in the striped shirt, listening intently. He’s stunned, then amused: Does she really think he’s going to put on a display of alpha-male-jealousy for her? God, she sure is something else… She looks gorgeous in that red halter neck dress …

“I _love_ high-risk outdoor-activities, such as paragliding, parachuting, bungee-jumping… I’ll go to Mauritius on a dive-trip in October, wanna come?” babbles striped-shirt, sending his hand on a casual walk-about over Julia’s knee. Julia moves back a little and sends a speaking glance over at Peter. He takes a sip of beer and does - nothing.

So she tries to drag him into the conversation.

“What do you reckon, Peter? Are you also a daring person? Are you into this high adrenaline kind of stuff?”

“Me? Never,” he says in complete earnest, “I'm more your boring office-Joe, you know… Parachuting?  Christ, you must be some sort of adrenaline-junkie.” Striped-shirt beams with self-assurance which starts to dwindle as Julia has a laughing fit – well, it’s been her third wine cooler – and takes hold of Peter’s arm. Julia gestures for Peter to lean in towards her and then whispers in his ear: “Let’s get out of here!” 

*

“So where are we headin´?”

They walk down the street, she tucks her arm through his. Her grip is light, at ease. It feels just right.

“There’s a salsa joint down the road – wanna go?”

“No”, he says.

“Ah come on… Is this some `tough guys don’t dance´-bullshit?”

40 hours awake. He really has to decompress.

 “More like if I hear Latin music I’ll have to drink Bacardi and might be sick all over you. And I am starving by the way.”

 “Objection sustained”, she concedes, magnanimously. “Guess we better feed you so you’ll be able to walk me home. Do you like Indian, Peter?”

*

It is a nice place, this Indian restaurant she's suggested. He considers settling a few issues in advance, like: She is to let him pay but then decides to employ more clandestine tactics. He has to live up to a reputation after all.  
The food is delicious - his chicken tikka marsala is outstanding, and she clearly relishes her chicken biryani. He likes that. Girls who are fussy eaters, complaining about this and that, suck.  
She’s clearly not through with teasing him which he takes as a good sign.

“You got a mean streak, Peter Quinn! Why didn’t you help me when that guy at the bar started his groping?”

“Why didn’t you save my seat for me, Julia Diaz, when I was off getting _your_ drink?”

“Oh so that’s why is it?  Well that makes you a petty, vengeful alpha-male… and just for the record, you got yourself a drink as well.”

“Yeah and you are a big girl who can handle any guy on her own I’d say. You are a fucking police-officer after all!”

“You just insulted the police. That'll cost you…”

“No probs,” he says, “I’ll barter to cover my bail….”

“I bet…”

“What about dessert?”

“Not here”, she says with a cheeky smile.

 

He outsmarts her with the bill. The oldest trick in the world: Pretending to go to the bathroom and making a detour. He hands over his credit-card, signs the receipt, grabs a pen with the name and phone-number of this place, figuring he might want to remember this evening.

“I should have known”, she rolls her eyes while stumbling outside, “you are _such_ an alpha-male…” and takes his elbow again. Her grip is still light, at ease. It still feels just right.

“… and you like it. I mean, there were heaps of guys… striped-shirt to mention just one… and it’s _me_ walking you home.”

She gives him a shrewd glance.

“Just because you remind me of somebody, I told you…”

Jesus this woman just can’t let go, God she’s so smart and stubborn and fun … it's no wonder he's ridiculously attracted to her.

“So what was so special about him that would make you put up with a dude like me for one entire evening, just for the sake of a memory?”

He’s walking on thin ice here, and he knows it.

They've been fencing with one another for most of the evening.  Their weapons?  Their eyes and their glances, trying different feints and parries. Now they are heading into the final round.

“His kiss”, she says and he likes to think that she's blushing.

“Wow, his kiss. How romantic. Don’t think I can top that…”, he teases and draws her close, God he’s amped up, 42 hours without sleep and he feels completely wide awake, and he bends down and kisses her. Very soft, mouth slightly open. She sighs and closes her eyes and it arouses him even more, her way of giving in. She clings to him, her hands go up his neck, he puts his hands on her waist. His tongue touches her tongue, lightly, just a tease, an up-and-away sort of touch, then he withdraws and observes her. She opens her eyes.

“So, what do you reckon? Do I stack up?”

“Don’t think so, but maybe wanna give it another try?”

So he leans down again. Halfway through she opens her eyes and catches him watching. To his dismay, she is seriously upset.

“You keep _watching_ me? Are you some kind of bloody control-freak? No wonder you don't stack up to Johnny…”

He touches a loose strand of her hair and puts it back behind her ear.

“Take me home with you and I’ll kiss you wherever, whenever, however you choose, eyes firmly shut.” And he leans in and whispers in her ear, “It’s not safe here”, which is true for him but must sound ridiculous to her.

“Why don’t you take me home with you then, Peter?”

_Cos there’s a protocol and one sleeping-bag only and I don’t even have sheets -_

“No problem, if you are into Rob watching...”

Her eyes are flickering: “He might give us a hand if needed…”

“You’re implying you need Rob’s hand with me around?”

“I am just curious… watch and share, male bonding… I heard you guys do that a lot…”

“What if I don’t wanna share you?”

She gives him a thoughtful glance and shuts up for three full minutes which is a relief. He takes her hand and they walk on in perfect silence.

 

When they pass a little park, she drags him inside to a bench and sits on his lap. He tries to kiss her but she backs away.

“I don’t kiss a guy who keeps his eyes open, remember.”

43 hours without sleep. He is getting a tad bit tired of her teasing.

“OK then, wanna go somewhere? A – hotel?”

“Tempting… first date ending up at a hotel. Never been to a flea bag motel but it might be quite a turn-on, sex workers next door providing the sound track…”

“I personally don’t need to be turned-on… and it doesn’t have to be a flea bag motel….”

 “OK then, make it five stars and we share the costs.”

“You know what, Julia”, he says, getting more frustrated by the minute, “here’s what I think. I think you’ll keep playing with me and teasing until we’re at your place, then it’s a peck and bye-see-ya-later at the front door and then you'll rush inside, worked up enough to get your boring fiancé interested in knocking boots.”

“That’s what you think?”

“Yeah. You’re such a cock-tease”, and he draws her real tight to give meaning to his words.

“You know what I think?”, she replies, deliberately pressing and rubbing against his crotch. “I think you wanna drag me into these bushes and fuck me senseless. Keeping your eyes open while making me lose it,” and she smiles in a way that clearly means “Go for it!”

All he wanted to have was a private secluded space for tender love-making… but if that’s what the lady wants, he’ll try to deliver.

So he gets up and in one swift motion, lifts her up and half-throws her over his shoulder, and she’s giggling and clutching at his throat so he has to hold her hands steady with a firm grip. He moves into the small stretch of wood so they can’t be seen from any of the paths, lets her down carefully and leans her against an oak tree. Her eyes are soft with arousal and her breathing is quick.

_Fuck me, how come you're so into this alpha-male shit, Jules…_

He undoes the tie on the halter of her dress, one pull at the knot is all it takes. She stands in front of him, her upper body naked, slim and fragile and shivering in the night breeze, and his hand slowly touches her chin, her neck, her shoulders, her small firm breasts. She stays quiet, looking at him expectantly, breathing rapidly. He kisses her nipples, feels her body tremble. He moves his hand over her body, sliding between her thighs, all his senses sharp, his body on a state of alert.

He hasn’t even decided whether he should fingerfuck her or go all the way when she gasps for breath, clutches at him, digging her fingernails in his back, and cries out her orgasm.

He holds her while she shudders, his stomach muscles tightening, so he made her come, well he didn’t do much, but still... He feels protective, yes more protective than turned on which surprises him. He listens to her breath slow down to normal, there are a few quiet moments when she leans in and her hands move across his neck and his shoulder caressingly.

“Jesus”, she says with a small and shaken voice.

“That was quick…”

“Yeah… do you want me to…  do anything for you?” and she looks up at him, clearly intent on not owing him anything.

_Take me home. I wanna hold you. All of you… all of me._

“I am sure you’ll come up with something nice”, he whispers in her ear, “let’s go to your place, shall we?”

For a moment stretching into eternity he is afraid she might come up with a snarky reply, but she doesn’t. She just smiles and nods, and he finds that his heart gets light.

She reties her dress. “OK then…  all good?”

Instead of answering, he puts his arm around her neck and draws her close, cos it’s the most alpha-maleish grip he can think of and he figures she might like it, and that’s how they walk back to her place.

*

At her apartment, she unlocks the door and lets him in first.

“What do you think?”

“Spartan.”

He’s right. There’s hardly any furniture.

“Well… I lived with someone, we split up so half of the stuff is gone.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not tonight,” she says. “No couch I am afraid…”

So he takes the only seat available and makes her sit on his lap again, his fingers trailing her down her neck and her clavicle.

She leans her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes.

“You’re tired?”  
“No… no”, she says, clearly lying.

“Cos I am. I am dead tired. It’s been a fucking long day. Excuse my French. I really am.”

She mumbles something inarticulate.

“Look”, he says, “before you fall asleep…”

“I won’t fall asleep, I owe you, remember…”

“…. there’s that other thing… ”

She looks at him, dreary, alarmed.

He clears his throat, desperate to keep his voice steady while carefully watching her.  
“You said you’d never join the police, so what happened?”

Her eyes widen in acknowledgement.

“Johnny…” she whispers.

He braces himself for insults, attacks, a violent outbreak.

“Jesus I am so tired…” she mumbles and closes her eyes. “I can’t really… process all of this right now.” Peter carefully moves free, picks her up, she is small and light compared to the gear he's used to dragging around, so he can carry her into the bedroom without too much of a strain. He removes the covers, lays her down, takes of her shoes but doesn’t undress her. It would feel like – a violation.

She watches him silently.

He takes off his shoes, hesitates.

“Take off your clothes, you bloody liar….”, and so he undresses quickly, keeping his boxer shorts on though, and lies down next to her. Happy to look at her, stroke her hair, tentatively touch her bare shoulder while her dress still covers the most delicious parts of her body.

She sighs and cuddles up against him. Within seconds, she's out.

He breathes in Julia’s scent and savours her warmth and there it is again, the tingling inside… He presses a chaste kiss on her shoulder, pulls up the covers, tucks them both in and closes his eyes, ready to fall asleep after 44 hours of staying awake.

And he does.

 

*

When he wakes up, he needs a moment to orient.

Julia’s place.

“Julia?”

He calls again: “Julia?”

No reply. Looks like he’s on his own.  
He sits and runs his hand through his hair.

“Julia?”

He gets up. Checks the bath. The kitchen. The living-room.

 A half-empty wardrobe. A TV-support on the wall but no TV. Marks in the carpet where the couch must have been.

She must have left and let him sleep on in her bed. It gives him a funny feeling.  
Deserted flats are bad news _._ For a minute he’s ten, twelve, fourteen years old, shouting for his mom, finding her in the bathroom, in the kitchen, on the bed, a needle in her arm.  
He blinks the pictures away. Where the fuck did those come from now!

There’s a note on the table: “Didn’t want to wake you. Will be finished at 8.30 pm – will I c u?” She's also scribbled a phone-number and attached a key. She fucking left him her key!

He has to sit down and take it in. Trying to make sense of what he feels right now. Sheer happiness? He’s overwhelmed, that’s for sure, and – whatever… he needs a coffee first before he can think clearly.

The place is littered with post-its, little notes she left: Hearts and arrows and instructions. (“Coffee in here! Microwave doesn’t work, use the kettle!”) He sits down with his coffee, not quite ready to face all of the world so he doesn’t turn on the TV or the radio. He checks his watch – half past four – so he's slept for 13 hours. In Julia’s bed. Can’t be – can it?

Fuck.

He checks his cell phone. Battery flat.

Doublefuck. Disappearing from the radar is not going to go down well, especially if an operation is already underway – damn it! He gets angry at himself - how come he had allowed himself to get so carried away!

He dresses quickly, remembers to grab her note but doesn’t take the key and rushes out, leaving the coffee untouched.

For a change, Fate smiles down upon him. Nobody's noticed that he was missing. Well, Rob did, leaving a package of golden vanilla condoms on his sleeping-bag and a note, stating that he was off to Maryland.

He calls Julia, she doesn’t pick up. He doesn’t leave a message.

He has a few hours to spend and knows exactly where he should be heading.

*

The Benjamin Franklin Parkway is pretty much like he remembers though much more inviting and alive now in late August than it was during this dreary March way back. His favorite park bench, the one with the afternoon sun, is still there, a lot more scratches in the varnish, but still there. He sits down, a paper cup with coffee in hand, and watches the peaceful scenery. Kids with their dads playing baseball, couples walking by, hand in hand, two drunkards shouting at each other over a bottle in paper-wrap.

*

The former villa of a certain Hong Kong paymaster is now the seat of a foundation. The name doesn’t ring a bell so he Googles it to find out more when a private security man comes up and tries to bully him to leave. He provides one of his IDs, an Agency one, which makes the guy shut up and take off.

He looks up at the wall which still looks pretty impressive even though they have taken down the barbed wire on top. And for a moment he is really proud of himself, of getting out and getting away and getting here. Of never letting go. Of being a tough cookie, as his mom once put it in one of her rare clear _and_ tender moments.

His cell-phone rings. Julia sent him a message: _Indian at 9? My place?_

*

He rings at her place at 9 sharp, nervousness written all over his face. He's clearly made an effort: He wears an ironed white shirt and black jeans, his chin is smooth and when she goes on her toes to peck him she gets a whiff of aftershave.

“Can we talk?” she asks before he can say anything.

“Yeah, sure”, he goes.

“You didn’t take the key.”

“I was in a rush. I forgot. You should have woken me.”

“You looked so – peaceful. I’ll do next time. If there is -  I mean- is there a next time?”

“I'd like that”, he says somewhat lamely.

“Good. Me too but – what it this? What are we?”

“I dunno. Do you?”

She smiles. “I’d say I let you in my life. So you owe me.”

“Meaning?”

“Don’t lie to me. Ever. Again.”

“I won’t.” He rubs his brow. “But – there are things I can’t tell you. Lots of things.”

“Classified stuff, huh?”

He nods.

“I get that. Part of my job description.”

“And I might – be – not around. A lot. And I can’t… we can’t make plans well we can but there’s no guarantee… I can keep them…. I might be gone on… short notice, very short notice and – can’t tell when I’ll be back.”

“Can’t tell or won’t tell?”

“Can’t. But I will be back. That I can promise.”

She looks at him, arms folded: “Tempting...”

Suddenly there's this tiny black hole inside of him.

“I” – he has to swallow – “totally understand if you… aren't cool with this.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions, Johnny! – Jesus, I can see my friends bringing in a shrink to discuss this imaginary boyfriend they think I am making up.”

“Better not mention me then.”

“Jesus Johnny… that’s not the kind of life I want!”

The black hole is expanding.

“I am aware, but … you and me, we can make this work. Who cares about everybody else.”

“I do. My family, my friends… you can’t expect me to live a hermit’s life just waiting for my white knight to eventually return.”

The black hole will swallow him, that's what black holes do, swallow dark matter, right.

“You’re right…. I am sorry. I got… carried away. You are right. It’s – a bad idea.”

“No. No! You’re not backing out! Not before dinner anyway… and dessert. I owe you, remember?”

And she smiles, takes his hand and lays it on her heart. (Or, well, her boobs.)

“It’s yours to take, Johnny.”

 

 

They have dinner, Indian takeout, she has to reheat it in the microwave because of all this talking. It’s still delicious but he is less hungry, he is edgy, he pushes the chicken pieces around on his plate. They hardly talk. The black hole is about the size of a pinhead but big enough to keep the mood serious, watchful.

They clean up the place, Julia makes espresso, the talk gets back to lighter topics until she says, touching  the halter of her dress suggestively, another halter neck dress, she seems to own a number of these halter neck dresses which are simply adorable on her: “What about dessert today?”

“I'm in”, he says, and she takes his hand and as soon as she touches him, all he can think of now is how much he wants to have her. She leads him into the bedroom. They are quiet, awkward even, while they help each other undress – well, it’s Julia after all and she insists he remove her lingerie with his teeth. Apart from that, she lets him have his way. So they explore every inch of their naked bodies, touching, soft kissing, sighing until she takes his hand in a resolute gesture to make him stop.

“Jesus Johnny - fuck me properly, will you? Cos I really want you to. I've been told that’s what God gave you a dick for after all...”

It arouses him even more, her forceful almost dirty talk.

“Come on”, she says, “be a bad boy and have your way with me,” and he sighs and lays her down gently and reaches for the condom in the pocket of his jeans. Golden vanilla thanks to Rob's generosity.

“Oh you don’t have to, I've got that covered”, she says,

“But you don’t know where I might have been, Jules”, he says and she gets he tries to be a gentleman, not implying he doesn’t know where _she_ might have been…,

and he is done with the condom and moves on top of her, lifting her hips with one hand to enter her easily, she sighs with pleasure, looking at him.

He takes both of her hands and pulls her arms over her head, stretching them just the tiniest bit, still holding tight, hands clutching hands, and then he moves inside her slowly and gently. To him, it is the most intimate encounter imaginable, hard to bear and incredibly arousing: Being inside her, her eyes and her face so close to his that it is hard to keep their glances locked.  To not shy away. It might seem he is in control, mastering her, making her hold back while she clearly wants to go wild. Him holding on tight, being on top, making her surrender. But it is mutual, to him it is, the control and the surrender. It is so intense to look at her, to look into her dark eyes, her bambi-eyes all gone soft with desire, making their way right into his mind - he feels completely naked, completely _trusted_ , an open book to her and it is the best feeling in the world.

“I fucking love you”, he whispers.

*****

Peter Quinn is always on time for his meetings with Dar Adal, but today he makes sure to be a few minutes early. He’s always been a good listener but today he exceeds himself. Asks smart questions, takes hints, gives advice. He is more than prepared for the Adal-show.  
Thing is: Dar Adal takes it for granted. Worse, he starts with a complete interrogation right away:  
“Why on earth did you join Rob end of August to begin with?”

“Because he asked me to – Eric got shot the week before-“

“I am aware. And you should be aware you were taken out of the group to stay on standby for operation Narcos and Narcos only.”

“I figured it was not much of a risk, one, two days at most.”

“I don’t care what you figure, you follow my orders and stay away from any SWAT-team-work. You’ll be off to Miami end of the week for finally making contact. You finished your tutoring, I assume?”

Peter Quinn, clearly pissed off over the wipe-down, gives a short nod.

Adal’s voice stays completely level. “Good luck then. This will be most exciting. Better not fuck it up or you're going to wind up dead.”

“Yes, Sir.” Peter gets up to leave, hesitates.

_Get over with it._

“I’m seeing somebody.”

“You’re kidding me. Now, of all times?”

Peter doesn’t reply. What is he to say.

“Anything serious?”

“Yeah.”  
_Why else would I bother to mention_.

“OK. We'll have her background checked. You need to provide her name and address.” He’d find out of course, but no need to waste any tax-payer’s money.

“She’s ok. She’s with Philly police.”

Adal opens the drawer of his desk and hands him a form.

“That's for us to decide, Peter, not you… Name and address, please.”

So Peter sits down again and takes out a pen, the pen from the Indian restaurant.

“You are free to do as you please, Peter, but why of all times now…?”

_Because._

“I am waiting for an answer. Why now?”

“It just happened.”

“Those things don’t happen, Peter – you let them happen, or you don’t. Don’t give me any of that fate and destiny bullshit we both don’t believe in. For better or worse, you are the decisions you make.”

“I’ll note that in my diary.”

“Don’t get defiant with me, Peter… We’ve been preparing this high-risk-op for more than three years….”

“38 months, Sir.”

“Right, 38 months. And now as you are on the verge of heading off on an open ended mission … self-extraction – you tell me you are seeing someone… You know you can’t get out now!”

“…and I didn’t fucking ask to get out, I just… wanted to follow… the protocol…”

“which makes you only half a moron I suppose.” Adal sounds clearly disgusted. “Don’t jeopardize yourself and the mission because you are _distracted_. For God's sake, Peter, don’t risk your life for your dick.”

“You should have more faith in me - and my work ethic.”

Adal takes it in, reconsiders. “Peter – is she aware you might not be coming back?”

“So far she isn’t even aware I’ll be gone.”

Adal scrutinizes him with a nearly amused eye. “Jesus, Peter… your timing is impeccable.”

“Has it ever occurred to you, Sir, it might be – an asset? That I might do my utmost to come back safely – for her?”

And Peter fills in that form, puts the pen in his pocket and leaves.

Outside, it's a beautiful day: A bright blue late October sky, Indian summer splashing out its colors, the sun golden bright.

It’s his birthday.  
He is 29 years old. He's got love and adventure and a _calling._ It's more than he ever felt entitled to.

He is to make it work, all of it. He is.

 

 - The End -

**Author's Note:**

> Liked the fic? Wanna find out more about the writer and join our discussion? -> http://homelandstuff.livejournal.com/11871.html#comments


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